58 I The "master of the essay"* · reveals his true passion. TOTALLY Essays and Criticism from a Lifelong L t-'e Affair with the Movies '.' ijji \ ;;",*. no . :' ; lì ; - .:. i 4 .'r : ... }'4';;t' ;=;..J # ;_ èvj{ %l .,A't 'V '.:,':;,'oJt I C " % t1!\ L ' i' '; LY i- :.... . .;- .. ,:X:. .x..,. ". ...... . . ill!t ;f ;rpnÃ EiË :" :.:: .....:: :.: :...:... ::.: ..;::::.::; . : ::: ::, ::,,::: : :: : .j: :: j :: ; "A marvelous collection of film criticism... We are fortunate Phillip Lopate decided to share this obsession with us." -Chicago Tribune "Unwaveringly intelligent...a wealth of thoughtlul analysis conveyed in lively, often eloquent prose. Lopate is curious, wise, and frequently amusing, a sharp observer of his own quest for 'sublimity on screen.'" - The New York Times Book Review "A tour de force of Lopate's art. In gathering apparently disparate and occasional writings into a kind of sly autobiographical whole, Totally, Tenderly, Tragically is a typically Lopatian success." -Sa/on Anchor Books Available wherever books are sold Visit our Web site at · file www.anchorbooks.com I FICTION OTTO THE BLOODY The millennium (of course)-the last time around BY KEN KESEY I: MME see, lemme see. . . . What was that dude's name? You'd think I'd remember after that good- bye bash he threw. Then again, when you're in my line of work, you get to at- tend so many goodbye bashes. . . . It wasn't Sodom or Gomorrah. It wasn't the fall of Rome. Oh, wait a minute, I know! We're talking Jesus Christ time here, A.D.J.C. time, and I quote: "When the thousand years are expired, the chosen shall be lifted up to Heaven and Satan shall be loosed from his prison and the fan shall catch up to the shit. "Ho ho ha ha . . . Revelations 20: 7, or something like that. Great stuff O.K., I think I got it straight. Here we go . . . T HE date was nine hundred and ninety-nine years eleven months and thirty days, give or take a few leap years, in merry ole Yermany-Der Fod- derland, where else? That's cannon fod- derland, if you get what I mean. Otto was the dude's name. Prince Otto, old King Otto the Great's only son-a pious little prick if you've ever seen one, raised by six nuns, tutored by seven priests, and tortured by endless boils. The ideal combo of spiritual nutri- ents for the more sinister seeds of Scrip- ture, wouldn't you agree? Even as a tod- dler, little Otto dug on Revelations. He loved being read to sleep by those seven priests, a different reader for every night of the week. By the time his voice was changing, he could quote the whole Book of Revelations by heart. The priests were just so proud. And by the time he was sprouting whiskers on his boils he was having holy fits and seeing apocalyptic angels! Visions! Beasts, heavenly chariots, the whole nine yards. The priests judged their princely pupil ready to take the tiller and steer the ship of state through the century's remaining years. So they sent forth word to Otto the Great that young Otto's visions clearly showed that he was ready to assume the realm's helm and become the kingdom's Holy See. Well, old Otto didn't see it quite that way: He sent forth guards to bring the sanctimonious little snotnose back in chains. Steer the ship of state indeed! He'd show him where he could stick that tiller! In the meantime, the King decided he'd pop over to the chapel and pray for his own guidance, you know what I mean? Just to cover all bets. And whùe he was kneeling a dark swarm of aveng- ing angels--seven strong, 'tis said--came flapping out of the shadows and hacked the imperial impediment into seven pieces, which they bore away in seven different directions. None of the seven gory pieces ever saw one another again. Thus the son of Otto the Great be- came known as Otto the Bloody-the scourge of blasphemers and fornicators and sorcerers and so forth. He scourged so many out of his court that pretty soon there were only a hili dozen forni- cators and sorcerers left. Soon it began to look to him as if his earthly chores were drawing to an end, what with the end of the world slated for the New Year and all. . . . As I recall it, he summoned his royal retinue into the imperial beer hall and made the announcement "Doomsday night approacheth. We oughta go up on top of a mountain and celebrate the end of the world as though we were causing it!" "Damn straight," his retinue agreed. " D d " ooms ay: So on New Year's Eve 999, he took his generals, and his cronies, and his seven priests, and six nuns, and his pregnant wife, and a pig, and a great big mastiff: some horses and horse carts and wine wagons and stuff: and they headed up to the top of one of the nearby moun- tains. Not much more than a hill, actu- ally: But it was getting dark. The wife's sensitivities hurt from all that bounc- ing behind a flatulent horse. The priests needed a place to pray, and the nuns needed a place to pee. This hill would do.